


It Was Really Nothing

by bloodravenclaw



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:57:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodravenclaw/pseuds/bloodravenclaw
Summary: In which Francis over prepares for maybe-a-date with Charles. Set in the spring of their second year, shortly after the first time they slept together.





	It Was Really Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is funny because 9/10 of the time I hate it and won't touch it with a ten foot pole, but the other 1/10 of the time I like it a lot. These spells can be few and far between, and this was written over two of them, so it took me five months to write these 4000 words or so, start to finish. The horsey stuff is all from my childhood memories of going out to the barn with my mom when she used to ride. I didn't do any other research, so apologies to any horse people in the audience if anything's not quite correct. Title comes from a Smiths song (as with my other work on here) because I was listening to the Smiths while writing and because I couldn't think of a real title.
> 
> This work has little bits of my own self in it, what with all the animals (I love animals, and some of the ones in this are ones I've known in real life) and with Francis-- when reading the book I always saw a lot of myself in him. I hope you all enjoy this.

Francis awoke earlier than usual, to the day’s first sunlight shining through the curtain gap and the singing of birds in the bushes outside his window. He sat up right away: this was the day he was taking Charles out into the countryside with him for a trail ride! He rolled out of bed and opened the curtains all the way to let in more light, then found his robe and went out to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

As the coffee dripped, he busied himself setting his kitchen and living room in order-- fresh towel by the sink, last night’s dry dishes put away, pillows on the sofa fluffed. Charles had come here before, obviously, but this time felt different, and Francis wanted the place to look tidy and welcoming. They’d be spending time alone together and sober, instead of with the others or drunk, as Francis had hoped for since that first time, after they’d been left alone after a night of alcohol and music when the three others had gone home. Carrying the kitchen scissors, he went outside to check that the front stoop was tidy-- door mat in place, dead leaves kicked over the edge, no spider webs. The morning promised a pleasantly crisp spring day later on, but a few puffy clouds lurked at the edges of the sky. Dewdrops coated everything in a layer of light and sparkle. He glanced around to make sure no nosy neighbors lurked about, then used the kitchen scissors to cut a bunch of blue hydrangeas off the bush the landlord had had planted the previous year. He went back in and set the hydrangeas in a glass of water, then double-checked his liquor cabinet to make sure the bottle of wine he’d bought earlier in the week was where it should be. Even though they planned on riding horses on his aunt’s friend’s property, Francis hoped that if their date went well, Charles would want to come in for a drink afterwards.

Not that it was a date, exactly. Well, maybe it was. Francis had meant to phrase it as such--  _ “Would you like to go on a date with me?”--  _ but somehow it hadn’t quite made it past his lips that way. “Do you want to ride horses with me,” he had asked, all in a rush, somehow unable to vocalize the full question, even though he’d rehearsed it countless times in his head beforehand. “Of course,” Charles had said, “I love horses.” And they had made plans to meet at eleven today, and that had been that, aside from Charles calling the day before to ask if he ought to bring anything. Francis had never explicitly asked Charles it it was a date. But then, he must know; after what had happened a two weeks prior, wasn’t it obvious?

He turned off the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, black, no sugar.

Later that morning he sat on the edge of his just-made bed and surveyed the interior of his closet. They’d be riding, of course, so he already knew he’d wear his riding boots. They were beautiful, a supple chestnut leather, and in his opinion it was a shame he didn’t get to wear them more often. He also chose a pair of tan pants, a white button-down, and a charcoal-gray quilted jacket, just in case he got chilly. He found all the items in his closet and laid them out on the bed. He surveyed the ensemble critically. Something still didn’t look quite finished about it-- the pieces looked crisp and put-together, but it lacked that little extra that would make it more eye-catching and special.

_ Let’s see, let’s see…  _ He spotted a silk scarf he’d bought at a thrift shop in town recently. He didn’t know how old it was or even where it might have come from, but the ultramarine blue had caught his eye, and he liked the pattern of clocks on it, too. He hadn’t found reason to wear it yet, and he thought that it’d complete his outfit well. He added it to the clothes on the bed, then checked the clock on his bedside table-- just past ten o’clock. Francis sighed and went back out to the kitchen to make himself some toast and maybe read a book until it was close enough to eleven to bother getting dressed.

_ Tap, tap, tap  _ went Francis’s fingernails on the tabletop. He glanced anxiously at the wall clock over the front door. 11:08. Why hadn’t Charles shown up yet? He thought to double check his planner, but didn’t bother. He knew they’d planned to meet at eleven.

He considered peeking through the front window to see if Charles was coming up the front walk, but what if he was and thought Francis was too … something, for worrying about it? But he wanted to get a baggie of ginger snaps for the horses. He went over and put several into a bag that he tucked it into his vest pocket, then looked out the kitchen window. He didn’t see anyone headed up the front walk. He sat down again and jiggled his leg, too restless to sit still, and finally the doorbell rang. His anxiety lifted.  _ 11:20. _

Francis opened the door to see Charles on the front stoop, radiant in the sunlight and cool air. “Hey! Come in!” He held the door, then followed after him.

“Sorry I’m late. I lost track of the time.”

“That’s okay! Don’t worry about it.” They stood in the entry for a minute, and Francis felt a  _ zing  _ in the air between them  He felt unsure of what to say. “Um, do you need to borrow some riding clothes?” Charles had arrived in blue jeans, a button-down, and sneakers: they would work fine for an afternoon ride, but Francis wondered if he would rather have something a little nicer to wear.

“No thanks, I’m fine. I doubt we wear the same size, anyway.”

“Are you sure? I have another pair of boots you could borrow, at least.” His old pair, of soft, well-worn black leather.

“It’s fine, really.”

“Okay.” Francis stood for a moment, not knowing what to do with his hands.  “So, um, are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Charles nodded, and the two of them left the apartment and headed toward Francis’s car. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that Charles hadn’t even seen the hydrangeas on the kitchen table.

Francis pulled out of the parking lot and started down the road. They sat in silence for a few moments. “Do you want to listen to music? I have some cassettes in the glove box you can pick from.”

“Okay.” Charles opened the glove box and selected a tape, then pushed it into the cassette player. The Cure started to play.

“Good choice.”

“You think?” Charles smiled with one side of his mouth in that way Francis liked. Francis smiled back. He turned down a side road. Trees with branch tips blushing rose and russet blurred past. “What’s Camilla up to today?”

“Finishing Julian’s paper, mostly. She put it off.”

“I’m glad you could come today, then.” Francis had, in fact, also put off the paper, but had decided to go out with Charles anyway.

“Me too. Our grandmother used to ride, and I’ve taken enough lessons to learn the basics, but--” he shrugged. “It was kind of expensive, so I never got to do that much with it.”

Francis nodded. “I rode a lot at school in Switzerland, but I was never good enough to be on the equestrian team or anything like that. Solidly average, though. I liked it.” They continued chatting for the rest of the ride: about horses and about class and their friends, at first, and then about their families and their lives before coming to Hampden. A happy bubble formed in Francis’s chest, and he found himself laughing easily. He caught Charles’s eye in the mirror. His stomach swooped and his gaze fluttered back to the road, but he couldn’t help but smile. 

The time sped by, and soon they turned into the driveway. Gravel crunched and popped under the tires.

‘What did you say her name was, again?” asked Charles.

“Vicky Owens. She’s friends with my aunt and she likes me to come see her now and then. She’s a widow and I don’t think she gets many visitors.”

“Is she from here?”

“No, she’s from Kentucky but she moved up here to be closer to her husband’s family. She breeds Tennessee walkers and boards other people’s horses. Her husband was friends with one of my mom’s ex-husbands and she and my mom still talk and send Christmas cards and all that.”

They walked up the gravel drive to the white wooden house. Francis rang the bell, and the cacophonous barking of Mrs. Owens’s pair of enormous Great Pyrenees dogs greeted them. Mrs. Owens herself appeared and stood at the threshold a few seconds later, holding the screen door open. She was a small, wiry woman in her fifties, with graying hair and a warm smile. Her dogs crowded their way past her and milled around Francis and Charles. One of the dogs’ tails thudded against Francis’s legs.

“There you boys are! So good to see you, Francis.” Mrs. Owens smiled at the two of them. “And you must be Charles. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand to shake, and Charles took it.

“It’s nice to meet you too, ma’am.”

They exchanged pleasantries: the usual things about how classes were going (quite well, thank you), what Charles was studying (classics), how the drive up went (good, thanks, it’s so nice to be out now that spring has finally come around). Then she asked, “Why don’t you two come in for a minute and I’ll bring you a picnic basket I put together for you.” She held the screen open, then followed them and the dogs inside. The screen slammed behind them. They stood in the entryway for a minute while she walked into the kitchen. One of the dogs pushed its wet, snuffly nose into Francis’s hand and he idly gave it a pat on the head. In a minute, Mrs. Owens came back in bearing a picnic basket.

“Here you go,” she said, and handed it to Francis. “Now you two have a lovely afternoon! I’ll see you later on.” Francis and Charles thanked her and then headed out.

“She seems nice,” said Charles.

“Yeah, I like her a lot. Great lady.” They walked down the hill to the barn. A clump of yellow daffodils grew beside the door, nodding their heads in the light breeze. Francis pushed open the door and led Charles inside. The warm smell of straw and horses greeted them, and the barn cat, a green-eyed black with a kink in the end of her tail, trotted over to inspect the newcomers. Francis bent down to give her a scratch behind the ears. 

“This girl is Bailey,” said Francis, walking over to a smallish, soft-eyed gray mare. “She’s my favorite.” He blew lightly into her nostrils and Bailey nickered. He reached into his pocket and took out the pouch of ginger snaps and fed her one, hand flat. She was a sweet-tempered horse, and although at first when he came to Vermont Francis had missed Alfonso, the beautiful skittish chestnut warmblood he’d ridden at school in Switzerland, Bailey had won him over easily. He stroked her velvety nose. “You can ride Solomon,” he told Charles, gesturing to a larger liver gelding in a stall across the aisle. “He’s pretty easy-going, which is good if you haven’t ridden in a while.”

“Thanks.” The two of them saddled up and headed outside.

They rode for a while on the trail. The first signs of spring filled the woods around them, and for a while Francis was content to look around at the coiled ferns poking through the dead leaves and to feel the cool, fresh air against his cheeks. He always loved coming out to the countryside and spending time with the horses. Something about the emptiness and quiet of the woods steadied him, and Bailey’s gentle nature and solid, warm presence gave him a sense of peace he never found anywhere else. He gave her a pat on the neck and wondered idly if he might want one of Bailey’s offspring once he graduated.

Charles seemed to enjoy the stillness, too. He and Solomon seemed to get on well, especially since Charles had given him one of Francis’s ginger snaps before they’d left. Even in his jeans and tennis shoes, he cut an impressive figure on the handsome dark horse. Francis found himself staring at his back, appreciating the clean lines of his body, the way his shoulder blades showed through his shirt and the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. He gave Bailey a nudge with his knees to catch up with him.

“Thanks for inviting me out here,” Charles said. “I’ve missed being around horses.” Francis smiled and waited for him to say something else, maybe about how he enjoyed spending time with him, but no more was forthcoming.

“You’re welcome.” Francis paused, studying the side of Charles’s face. “I’m glad you could come. I like spending time together.” He paused again, watching for Charles’s reaction, but there was none. “Just us, I mean. Without the others.” He bit his lip and looked at Charles. Charles glanced at him sharply, but didn’t say anything.

They rode on for a while longer, and eventually stopped by a chattering brook. It flowed narrow but swift, the dark water sliding smooth over boulders just beneath the surface and eddying around the other stones that broke through.

They tethered their horses to a branch of a nearby maple. Francis carried the picnic basket Mrs. Owens had given them over to the flat rock overhang beside the creek, where Charles had sat down and spread out the checkered blanket. He opened the basket and took out a bottle of lemonade, two chicken salad sandwiches, a bag of red grapes, and a bag of Lay’s potato chips. At the bottom of the basket sat two plastic-wrapped homemade sugar cookies, and he took these out, too. “Here you go.” He handed Charles his share of the food, then sat down beside him.

“Thanks. Are there cups?”

Francis looked in the basket again, then shook his head. “No, I think she forgot.”

“Oh.” Charles took a sip from the lemonade bottle, then passed it to Francis. “I hope you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not.” Francis reflected that he’d already had Charles’s mouth on his, so sharing the lemonade bottle would hardly cause an issue. Francis sipped the lemonade too. Briefly, he considered taking off his shoes to put his feet in the water, but dipping his hand in told him that the water was icy cold. That was all right, though; he was more than content to stay by Charles. He moved a little closer and caught his eye. His heart tripped over a beat. He didn’t think he’d seen such striking eyes in anyone else’s face, so feather-pale and full of light. “You know, I’m glad we could do this today.”  _ Thud-thud-thud  _ went his heart in his chest. 

“Well, like I said, it’s nice to come out here. I like the countryside and I like the horses.” Francis’s gaze still held Charles’s. He leaned closer and stroked the back of his upper arm with his fingertips. Charles went very still. “What--”

Before he could lose his resolve, Francis closed the distance between them and kissed Charles on the mouth.

“What are you--” Charles shoved him back roughly. “What are you doing?” His eyes, just moments ago so full of light, went cold as metal.

Francis pulled back, wounded. “I thought--”

“You thought what?”

“I thought this was a date,” managed Francis.

“Why would you think this was a date?” Charles sounded contemptuous, disgusted even.

“After--” He looked at Charles’s face and what he saw there make him hardly dare to keep going, but he made himself push on. “Well, after that night a couple of weeks ago, when we--”

“When we what.” His voice was flat, dangerous.

“We were all drunk, and the others left, and--” Francis was stammering, and he could feel his cheeks burning again. “Don’t you remember?”

“There’s nothing to remember.” Charles wouldn’t look at Francis, and instead glared resolutely out over the creek.

“But--”

Charles continued as if Francis hadn’t spoken.

“And if even if there was, which there isn’t, it doesn’t mean anything.”

_ It doesn’t mean anything.  _ Francis drew his knees up to his chest and bit his lip. “Oh.” A breeze rustled the branches over their heads and made Francis’s scarf flutter. A lump formed in his throat, but he forced it down. “Okay.” He moved away from Charles, trying to make it as subtle as he could, but knowing that of course Charles noticed, and embarrassed the he would be the one to move, to accommodate Charles’s anger, though Charles had been the one to lash out and hurt him. He finished his lunch in silence, and though he wanted a drink, didn’t ask for the lemonade again.

They packed up the picnic spread and got back on their horses. They finished the rest of the trail ride, but the conversation was sparse. Though the sky had looked clear that morning, clouds were rolling in from the north. “Do you think it looks like rain?” Francis ventured. 

Charles grunted. “Guess so.” He still wouldn’t look at Francis. He sighed and dropped his gaze from Charles’s back to Bailey’s mane. They finished the rest of the ride in silence.

They returned the horses to the stable. Francis took the saddles and tack back to the tack room while Charles stood by the door with arms crossed, looking across to the pasture down the hill. Francis left the stable and started back to the house. Charles followed.

“I have to give Mrs. Owens her basket. Then we can go.” Charles nodded.

Three raps at the door. The barking dogs, the door creaking open, Mrs. Owens appearing again. More pleasantries, and forced smiles from Francis. He extricated himself from the situation as quickly as was polite.

As they walked back to the car, Francis wondered how he would stand the hour-long car ride back to Hampden. Mortified as he was, he didn’t think he could talk right now, but riding the whole way in cold silence didn’t appeal, either. “Let’s put the roof down,” he said abruptly. He started to lower the car’s roof, while Charles stood mute beside him. Francis grimaced, feeling silly doing all the work while Charles looked on, but he’d already started and it’d be even more awkward to put it back now. A few spatters of rain landed on the hood of the car.

“Are you sure you want to put the roof down? It’s going to rain.”

“It’s just a light shower. It’ll be fine.” Actually, Francis hated to do anything that might damage the car (it had been a birthday gift from his mother just that year, and expensive, too), but at this point he felt too flustered to do anything about it. “Let’s go.” They got in the car, and Francis began to drive.

Lowering the roof had, he reflected, been a terrible idea. If he hadn’t wanted to talk to Charles, he should have just turned the music a little louder. Or even just not talked, that would have been fine too. The breeze, just cool on the trail, felt chilly now that they were driving, and the sprinkles of rain were getting in the car and making them wet. Francis sighed.

“Are you  _ sure  _ you don’t want to pull over and put it back?”

“It’s fine,” Francis snapped back, eyes on the road. They passed the rest of the drive to town without speaking.

~~~

Late that night, Francis sat in his living room and stared into his empty wine glass. He’d hoped that he and Charles would drink it together tonight, but he supposed drinking alone was alright, too. He poured himself a little more. He already felt a little tipsy, but wasn’t drunk enough yet for it to stop hurting.

Stupid of him, really, to think that it had meant anything. It had been late, they had drunk too much, Francis had made a reckless pass at him and it had gone too far. Nothing more. He took another sip of his drink. Besides, Charles liked girls. It had been a one-off thing; Francis had known a few guys who would do that kind of thing one time while drunk and curious after a party, and then never again. He just didn’t know why it had to hurt so much this time.

A knock at the door interrupted his brooding; he wondered who would have come at this hour. He hoped it wasn’t Henry. He didn’t want to talk about Julian’s paper right now. He checked the peephole, then drew back-- Charles stood on the doorstep. For a few seconds, Francis thought about leaving him on the stoop, pretending he’d already gone to bed, but that wouldn’t do any good-- he would have seen the light through the windows. Besides, he couldn’t pretend otherwise. He wanted to see Charles. He opened the door. “Hey--”

Charles pushed into the doorway. “Hi Francis.” His voice slurred as he spoke. A cold draft from the open door swirled around Francis’s ankles.

“Hi.” Francis took a step back, wary-- Charles had spurned him cruelly just that afternoon, but now under cover of darkness he came over and expected Francis to welcome him? Charles looked as beautiful in the night as he had in the radiant sun that morning, with the porch light casting shadows in the hollows of his eyes and rain dripping off his hair. Not bright and shining, but dark, and all the more lovely for it. Francis couldn’t help himself-- he stepped in towards Charles. Heat burned in his eyes, something like nervousness and something like desire. Charles took a step closer to Francis, too.

“Hey.” Charles spoke softly, and stood close enough that Francis could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nothing. Seeing you.” He took another step closer; his chest almost brushed Francis’s, and he could feel the heat rolling off him. An electric rush flowed across Francis’s skin.

“Did you  _ drive  _ here?”

Charles closed the gap between them. Francis tasted gin on his lips. He shoved Charles back by the shoulders. “But you said--” Charles didn’t answer, instead holding Francis by the waist and trying to kiss him again. At first he resisted, but Charles’s proximity and the way he was touching him melted Francis. After a second he leaned in and kissed back. In spite of his resentment from earlier, he slid his hands up Charles’s back, first over his coat, then underneath, and felt the smooth muscles under his skin.

Charles pulled back for a moment, and Francis did too, wondering if he’d been to forward, or-- but before he could finish the thought, Charles just said “shut the door” and pulled Francis back to him. Francis kicked the door shut, cutting off the draft from outside. He wondered briefly if this was really a good idea, after the way Charles’s earlier treatment had made him feel, but the smell of Charles’s skin chased off the flicker of doubt, and he folded the thoughts away to worry about later.

He leaned his forehead against Charles’s, his hands still wrapped in his shirt. “Come on,” he breathed, and took his hand to lead him to his room. 

~~~

Francis lay wrapped in his white cotton sheets. Outside, rain trickled down the window. Soft gray light filtered through the curtains, and he sighed. The pillowcase still smelled like Charles’s hair, and for a moment his chest filled with a warm, pleasurable feeling. But then the doubts he’d so carefully folded away the night before returned unbidden, springing from their drawer. The warm pleasurable feeling dissipated, replaced with a shifting anxiousness and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to leave his warm nest of blankets and he didn’t want to tell Julian he hadn’t finished the paper and most of all he didn’t want to face Charles again that day. But, he also didn’t want one of the others to see he wasn’t in class and come over with the day’s assignments, and besides, wouldn’t it be worse if Charles saw he’d stayed home and knew how yesterday had affected him? Better to show up anyway and try to act as though it hadn’t mattered. He closed his eyes for a long moment, then rolled out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. Outside, the rain continued to fall.


End file.
